#Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jamilelucato · 10 days ago

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Secrets We Keep [F.W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Summary: [y/n] Malfoy struggles with her family's dark secrets while navigating her final year at Hogwarts. A bizarre Defence Against the Dark Arts class forces her into unexpected alliances.

Warning: Mentions of dark magic, family drama, mild angst

A/N: Hey everyone! This one was inspired by the song Bad Idea from the musical Waitress. It’s going to have plenty of forbidden feelings. And yes, [Y/N] Malfoy is supposed to have the silver hair and the family looks, so I hope that doesn't put anyone off. I plan this to be a 4 part ride, and I have the rest ready to post, I’ll just give it a gap between the posts. Hope you enjoy this ride!

Secrets We Keep Masterlist (check it out for the updates!)

PART ONE

Her straight blond locks fell over her shoulders as she meticulously brushed her hair, part by part. The Slytherin dormitory provided her with a sizeable mirror—not as grand or as ornate as the one in her room at Malfoy Manor, but an acceptable looking glass perched atop a small, dark wood dressing table.

[y/n] Malfoy, the firstborn of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, carried a weighty legacy. Despite being female and, by tradition, barely an heir to anything substantial, she had a status to uphold. She was expected to set an example for the youngest in the family, Draco, who was two years her junior. The Malfoy lineage was strikingly consistent: father and offspring alike shared the same silver hair and sharp facial features. But their similarities went beyond appearances—personality, too, seemed an inheritance in the Malfoy bloodline.

At least, that was the consensus. Fred Weasley, however, recalled [y/n] as being somewhat kinder during her first and second years at Hogwarts. It seemed her brother’s influence had a way of souring anyone’s demeanour with his mere presence.

Not that Fred was keen to defend her. He simply believed in keeping the facts straight.

But that was a thought for another time. For now, [y/n] Malfoy was simply brushing her hair before bed.

“Do you think this year will be different?” she asked, addressing the girls in her dormitory. Her question wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.

“Whatever do you mean?” replied the darkest-haired girl in the room, her tone slightly curious.

“Last year, a student was killed,” [y/n] said, her voice thoughtful. “The school must have been horrified. Perhaps they’ll change some rules this year.” She placed her comb on the dressing table and turned to face the others, casting a final glance at her reflection. “I’m sure the parents weren’t happy.”

“Some were,” came a soft whisper from the smallest girl in the room. Petite in stature but formidable in character, she was known for her strong opinions.

The group chose to ignore the comment. It was safer not to delve into why certain parents might have approved of the tragedy. Slytherins often shared common ground, but values varied greatly from one family to another. It was only natural.

“Do you suppose they’ll add a curfew or something?” asked the dark-haired girl.

“We already have a curfew,” pointed out a blond girl seated in the corner next to [y/n].

“Really?” The dark-haired girl sounded genuinely surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

“Either way,” the blond girl continued, “if anything were going to change, they would’ve announced it tonight at dinner.”

“Dumbledore kind of did,” [y/n] said, tilting her head thoughtfully as she recalled the new face at the professors’ table. “When he introduced Professor Umbridge.”

“She seemed… pinkly nice,” the dark-haired girl scoffed, her tone dripping with irony as she thought of the new professor’s saccharine wardrobe.

The room filled with quiet chuckles, though no one voiced what they were all thinking: it was bound to be an interesting year at Hogwarts.

[y/n] climbed into bed, wishing more than anything for this school year to be over. Her final year at Hogwarts loomed ahead, demanding more from her than ever. There were lessons to master, exams to ace, and expectations to exceed. Perfect scores were a non-negotiable; her parents expected nothing less, and she was determined to show Draco—smug and competitive as ever—that Malfoys always set the standard.

Yet, sleep didn’t come easily that night. Her mind was restless, racing with thoughts she couldn’t quite untangle. It was absurd—she always had too much on her mind, but it had never stopped her from falling asleep before. Restless and uneasy, she glanced around the room. The rhythmic breathing of her four roommates confirmed they were sound asleep. Slipping out of bed, [y/n] grabbed her dark green slippers and heavy fur-lined coat, moving silently to avoid disturbing anyone.

Once in the dimly lit corridors, she considered stopping by the underwater window in the Slytherin common room. Watching the occasional fish glide past the glass might calm her, might lull her into the drowsiness she craved—but she dismissed the idea almost immediately. She didn’t have the patience to wait for a stray creature to appear.

Instead, she wandered, her slippered feet padding softly against the cold floors of the castle. She didn’t have a destination in mind. Perhaps a long walk would tire her out, or at least give her restless thoughts somewhere else to go.

But no matter how far she walked, one thought remained rooted firmly in her mind. It was a revelation she had stumbled upon at the end of the last school year, one that haunted her more than she cared to admit. For so long, she’d managed to ignore the small signs, dismissing them with self-spun lies. “My parents are just meanies,” she would tell herself whenever their behaviour didn’t sit right. “They’re just... particular.”

The cracks in those lies began to show when she returned home last summer, the news of Cedric Diggory’s death casting a shadow over the wizarding world. Cedric’s murder, tied to whispers of the Dark Lord’s return, should have shaken her family. But their reactions were anything but expected. Narcissa had been anxious, drinking glass after glass of wine for two days straight, while Lucius, ever composed, placed a hand on [y/n]’s shoulder and said, with unnerving calm, “Don’t worry, dear. You will never be in danger.”

What followed was even more unsettling. Seven days after Cedric’s death, instead of mourning or showing respect for the boy’s memory, the Malfoys hosted a dinner party. Their carefully selected guests brought no laughter, no celebration—but neither was there grief. Instead, all [y/n] heard was frustrated murmuring: “Who failed to get the right boy?!”

That evening shattered any illusions she’d clung to. Her family—the noble, proud, and pure Malfoy line—was not simply complicit. They were part of it. Part of him. The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, had returned, and the Malfoys were among those responsible.

Her steps slowed as she reached the edge of a stairwell, her hand gripping the cool stone railing. She hated herself for not knowing sooner, for not wanting to know. But now that she did, the weight of the truth was inescapable.

She sat down on the bottom step, letting her black furry robe cascade down to the floor below. She had wandered far, at least three floors above the Slytherin common room. Here, in the stillness of the upper castle, she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed. She took out a pocket watch, old and worn, but made of white gold, rare at the time and one of the few heirlooms that she could receive as a woman. She flicked it open and checked the time: late enough that no curious professor or wandering prefect would be about.

Satisfied, [y/n] tucked the watch away and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She rested her head against her knees, and finally, the tears she’d held in for so long began to fall. She cried silently, just as she’d been taught at home. No sobs, no gasping breaths—only the silent tremble of her shoulders, a skill perfected under the unspoken rules of a family where weakness was not permitted.

Fred Weasley wouldn’t have noticed her if not for the cascade of black fabric pooling at the bottom of the stairs. The dim light caught the edge of the robe, and his sharp eyes picked it out against the stone. He froze, his arm shooting out to block his twin, who was hurrying behind him.

George stumbled to a halt, confused. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed, his voice no louder than a whisper.

Fred didn’t answer. Instead, he placed a finger to his lips, signalling for silence. His eyes flicked downward, toward the shadowy figure huddled on the step below. George followed his gaze and frowned, finally spotting her.

[y/n] Malfoy.

The two brothers had plenty of questions, but haste was their greatest ally at that moment. They needed to disappear before anyone caught them in the aftermath of their latest nocturnal mischief—a botched attempt to sneak into Ravenclaw Tower and plant a stink bomb.

George looked at Fred, his brow raised in silent inquiry. Fred mouthed, “Go ahead,” and lowered the arm that had stopped his twin in his tracks. With a quick nod, George turned on his heel and slipped away, his steps as silent as a whisper against the floor.

But Fred didn’t follow. Instead, he lingered, taking a quiet step closer to the spiral staircase where [y/n] Malfoy sat hidden. The curve of the wall shielded her from view; all he could see was the edge of her dark robe spilling across the step and a glimpse of her feet, clad in green slippers.

Why was he curious? He couldn’t quite answer that, but he knew he was. He and [y/n] were in the same year and shared a handful of classes, but their interactions had been sparse and superficial. Well, unless you counted the times he and George had tried—unsuccessfully—to jinx her. No matter how clever or mischievous their spells, they never seemed to land.

Still, there was one memory that stood out, buried in the back of his mind. It was from when they were fourteen, in a Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson. That year’s professor had introduced the class to a boggart, and chaos had predictably ensued. Gryffindors being Gryffindors, Fred, George, and Angelina had spent most of the lesson joking and disrupting, so much so that the exasperated professor had rearranged the students, placing a Slytherin between them to restore order. That Slytherin had been [y/n].

Fred remembered her stepping up to face the boggart. She’d handled it quickly, efficiently—so quickly, in fact, that most of the class probably missed what she saw. But Fred hadn’t.

For the briefest moment, the boggart had taken the form of a man with pale hair and sharp, disdainful features: Lucius Malfoy. He hadn’t been angry or menacing. He’d simply looked... disappointed. That was all.

Fred doubted even the professor had caught the detail, and no one had said a word. “Great job, Miss Malfoy,” the teacher had praised, moving on as if nothing had happened.

Fred had been next in line. The boggart shifted into his own worst fear: poverty. The image of himself in tattered robes and empty pockets had haunted him for weeks afterward, but it was [y/n]’s boggart that lingered in his memory.

Now, standing closer to the staircase, Fred’s curiosity only grew. Why was she out here alone? Why had she been crying? The Malfoys weren’t exactly known for public displays of emotion—or for anything remotely vulnerable. Yet there she was, a small figure tucked into the shadows, her robe sprawling across the cold stone like the weight of her world.

Fred knew better than to approach her directly. He leaned slightly closer, just enough to catch a better glimpse, his curiosity warring with the knowledge that he was dangerously close to being discovered.

And still, he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Fred shifted his weight, leaning further toward the shadows. His breath caught for a moment, his instincts warning him to turn back. The faint scrape of his shoe against the stone echoed far louder than it should have in the silence. Fred froze, his heart leaping to his throat.

[y/n] stiffened, her head snapping up. She didn’t say anything at first, her tear-streaked face half-hidden by the folds of her robe. But then she whispered, her voice trembling and raw, “Who’s there?”

Fred didn’t answer. He held his breath, hoping against hope that she’d dismiss the sound as her imagination. Yet, the fragility in her voice made something twist in his chest—a flicker of guilt, maybe? Or pity? He didn’t know.

She turned slightly, peering into the shadows, her voice breaking as she repeated, “Who’s there?” This time, it was louder, edged with desperation, but still no answer came.

Fred should’ve left then. He should’ve melted into the darkness like George had, unseen and unnoticed. But his feet refused to move. Instead, his gaze lingered on her hunched form, her vulnerability cutting through the layers of family loyalty and Slytherin pride that normally defined her.

For a fleeting moment, he wavered. Maybe she deserved... something. A word, a gesture, anything to acknowledge that she was seen. However, the blood in her veins was steeped in a legacy of superiority and cruelty, and Fred couldn’t let himself forget that.

He clenched his jaw, his decision solidifying like ice around his chest. She didn’t deserve his sympathy. Whatever she was dealing with, it wasn’t his problem. He was Fred Weasley, a Gryffindor, a prankster, a fighter. Not a saviour for a Slytherin.

Finally, he took a step back, his movements careful and deliberate. The faintest creak of his shoe betrayed him, but he didn’t stop.

[y/n] sat frozen, her breath hitching. She’d heard something, she was sure of it. But the silence stretched on, unbroken, save for the faint hum of the castle at night. She wiped her face hastily, her hands trembling, and forced herself to rise. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but she needed to move. To leave this place before whatever—or whoever—was lurking in the shadows revealed itself.

As she straightened, her gaze darted to the edge of the corridor. For the briefest second, she caught sight of a flicker of movement—a flash of red disappearing around the corner. Her breath caught, and her heart skipped a beat. She blinked, unsure if her tired, tear-filled eyes were playing tricks on her.

“A Weasley?” she whispered, the name barely audible. It lingered in the air for only a moment before she shook her head, dismissing the thought. Not every redhead is a Weasley, she reminded herself. Slytherin had a few, though none quite as conspicuous as that meddlesome family.

Still, her gut twisted. It felt like a Weasley. There was something about that fleeting glimpse that set her nerves on edge, a certainty she couldn’t explain. But it didn’t matter—or at least, it shouldn’t.

Her jaw tightened, and she pulled her robe closer, as if shielding herself from the thought. If it was a Weasley, she could only hope they hadn’t seen her like this. A Malfoy caught alone, out of bounds, and vulnerable? The scandal would ripple through the school faster than a firework spell gone wrong. And worse, it might reach Draco—or even her parents.

No, it was best not to dwell on it. She took a steadying breath, forcing the errant thought away. The Weasleys were nothing but trouble, always aligning themselves with chaos and rebellion. She couldn’t afford to let herself be dragged into their orbit, even accidentally.

Adjusting her posture, she turned back toward the stairwell. Whatever she had seen—or imagined—was no longer her concern.

TWO DAYS LATER

For reasons she could barely articulate, [y/n] Malfoy despised Defence Against the Dark Arts. It wasn’t just the subject itself—though she struggled with it more than she’d care to admit—but the entire ordeal of the class. Of course, no one knew this. She had ensured her parents never glimpsed so much as a hint of a subpar grade, and her classmates were none the wiser. She’d mastered the art of pretence, hiding her shortcomings behind charm and an uncanny knack for ingratiating herself with whichever professor was unlucky enough to take the position that year.

Her strategy was simple but effective: always smile, always volunteer. Clean the board, stay after hours, distribute handouts, or organize supplies—whatever needed doing, she was there to do it before the professor could even finish their request. Her fourth year, when Gilderoy Lockhart had been in charge, had been an exhausting marathon of fetching, flattering, and faking enthusiasm.

This year, however, presented an unexpected obstacle: Dolores Umbridge.

The new professor, swathed in an alarming amount of pink and armed with a sickly sweet smile, had proven frustratingly independent. [y/n] had tried to get ahead of the game, visiting the professor’s office the day before the first class.

“Thank you, dear, for the offer,” Umbridge had said, her saccharine voice dripping with false warmth as she sipped her tea. “But I shan’t need any assistance at the moment. You, children, are such a pleasure to care for, truly, and I prefer to manage things myself to ensure perfection. But rest assured, I’ll let you know if that changes.”

[y/n] had smiled politely, her stomach twisting in quiet fury as she left the office. She already hated the woman.

Umbridge’s pink walls and cat-covered plates were nauseating, but it was her demeanour that grated most. That high-pitched, syrupy tone and the way she wielded authority like a sugar-coated dagger—it was unbearable. [y/n] had spent years perfecting the art of blending in and appeasing authority figures, and now, for the first time, it felt like her carefully honed tactics had hit a wall.

With a resigned sigh, [y/n] accepted that her final year of Defence Against the Dark Arts would be a war waged on a battlefield of textbooks and long nights of study. No amount of flattery or feigned interest would get her through this class. She knew that as soon as she walked into her first lesson, hellish and eternal as it promised to be.

“Put away your wands,” Umbridge declared in her sickly sweet voice, the sound grating after mere seconds. “In this class, they won’t be necessary.”

[y/n] wasn’t the only one whose eyebrow arched confused. A quick glance around the room revealed identical expressions on almost every face. A class meant to teach defence magic that forbade the use of wands? How were students supposed to defend themselves, then?

Unintentionally, her gaze fell on the table behind hers—the one where the Weasley twins sat. Predictably, Fred and George looked less amused than bewildered. Their confusion was a rare sight; usually, they thrived on chaos. Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons, while designed to teach practical spells for protection, had often served them well as inspiration for their pranks and traps.

Now, even they seemed uncertain of how to proceed, and [y/n] couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, had realized how absurd this year’s lessons were about to become.

The atmosphere in the classroom was tense. Dolores Umbridge’s insistence had left the students more confused than enlightened. Seated at her usual place, [y/n] Malfoy folded her hands on the desk, her brow furrowed as she struggled to decipher the logic behind Umbridge’s declaration.

“You see, dears,” Umbridge began, her shrill voice cutting through the murmurs, “the Ministry’s position is that the Dark Arts are more of a historical concern than a present-day threat. Why, the idea that we must arm ourselves for combat is frightfully outdated! We shall focus on theory instead, for knowledge—not spells—is your true defence.”

Several students exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared to speak. Umbridge continued, her smile growing wider, “After all, a true witch or wizard must rely on their intelligence and resourcefulness. Wands, my dear children, are not the only tools at your disposal. Often, they are unnecessary.”

That was when a Gryffindor boy, seated near the back, couldn’t contain himself any longer. “But what about when we’re attacked? Or if…” He trailed off, as if realizing he might have said too much. [y/n] glanced his way, trying to recall his name but coming up blank. All she could remember was that he was tall and had a persistent habit of speaking his mind.

Umbridge’s face remained fixed in its saccharine expression, but her eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. “Attacked? Oh, what a dramatic imagination you have. There is no evidence to suggest you are at risk. If, however, you’re so intent on preparing for scenarios that are unlikely to occur,”—her voice turned ever so slightly sharper—“I shall give you an assignment to expand your understanding.”

She clapped her hands, the sound unnaturally loud in the stifling silence. “You will work in groups of three to research the theme: Wands Are Not Always Useful for a Wizard. Consider historical examples, theoretical arguments, and practical alternatives. This will teach you to think critically about your overreliance on magic.”

The room broke into an uproar of whispers and grumbles as students began turning to one another, quickly forming groups. [y/n] hesitated, scanning the room. As a Slytherin, she usually gravitated toward her housemates, but today, no one seemed to be looking her way. She caught sight of the girls from her room (even the one that was sharing her table, seconds before) already pulling one another, engrossed in discussion, clearly not sparing her a thought.

She waited a moment longer, hoping someone might notice her. No one did.

Just as the weight of being left out began to sink in, a deliberate, exaggerated cough drew her attention. She turned sharply to see George Weasley, sitting behind her, his hand raised to his mouth as if to stifle another “cough.” Next to him, Fred gave her a mock-innocent smile, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Looks like someone’s in need of a group,” Fred said, leaning forward slightly.

Pairing with the Weasley twins was the last thing she’d expected. They were loud, mischievous, and Gryffindors to the core—everything she was not. But with no other options presenting themselves… she gulped.

“Is that an offer to trio up?” she asked, unsure of their waters. They could be just pranking her, in bad taste.

Fred Weasley did not think the same thing as his twin. What was George thinking? Pairing up with a stuck-up Malfoy? It wasn’t the first time the twins had disagreed on something, but this felt monumental. Sure, she was one of the top students, but she was still a Mal-bloddy-foy!

But George had set the course, and now it was too late to turn back. The invitation was practically extended, even if begrudgingly. Fred sighed and nodded, though the words tasted odd coming out of his mouth.

“Welcome to the Weasley Wizz,” he said, trying to sound natural. “Should I let Mum know we’ve got a third twin now?”

[y/n] recoiled slightly, her face twisting in mock disgust. “No, please,” she replied, her tone genuinely alarmed.

George, watching the exchange, failed miserably at hiding his laughter. The attempt to stifle it only resulted in another exaggerated cough, and the twins exchanged a quick glance.

“So,” George said, recovering just enough to sound composed, though a smirk tugged at his lips. “Should we schedule a day at the library?”

[y/n] blinked at him, then raised a dramatic hand to her chest, pretending to be deeply moved. “Wow. Will I be responsible for getting you two to set foot in the library? I might faint.”

Fred leaned on the desk, deadpan. “Actually, you can thank Umbridge for that miracle.”

She brushed off his jab with a dry laugh. “Sure. As if you’d have bothered if it weren’t for my presence. Let’s be clear—you two are going to work, or I swear I’ll skin you alive if we don’t get a good mark.”

She was right, of course, but neither twin would admit it aloud.

“Sunday afternoon, library. Don’t be late, Malfoy,” George announced, grinning as he leaned back in his chair.

“See you there,” she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

And just like that, [y/n] Malfoy found herself part of an unlikely trio—a collaboration destined to be anything but ordinary.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

The worst part about being a twin, Fred Weasley thought, was that no matter how hard he tried to keep something from George, his twin always found out. It was like having his own personal Sneakoscope shadowing him at all times. However, the best part of being a twin was that, with one raised eyebrow or a subtle wave of his hand, George would let things go—no questions asked.

Usually.

“Why are you nervous?” George asked now, drawing out each syllable like a curious cat batting at a cornered mouse.

“Nervous? Me?” Fred scoffed, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into a picture of exaggerated denial.

The two of them were making their way down the corridor leading to the library—a momentous occasion, as this was not just any trip but their first ever purposeful visit. Fred was sure their arrival would send Madam Pince into cardiac arrest.

George, however, wasn’t about to let the odd energy in Fred’s demeanour slide. He threw out an arm to block his brother’s path, forcing him to halt abruptly.

“Come on, spill,” George pressed, turning to face him. His expression was full of mock seriousness, though curiosity twinkled in his eyes. “Are you scared of showing [y/n] Malfoy what an absolute dunce you are?”

Fred frowned, pushing his brother’s arm down and continuing forward. “No,” he said firmly, as if the suggestion itself were offensive.

George trailed after him, undeterred. “You’ve been weird about this all day,” he said lightly, but there was a genuine note of curiosity in his voice now.

Fred stopped, let out a heavy sigh, and turned to his twin. “Fine,” he muttered. “I saw her crying.”

George tilted his head, one brow raised. “Malfoy?”

Fred nodded. “Yeah. A few nights ago.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.” The word came out quickly, but there was a tinge of regret buried in Fred’s tone that George didn’t miss. “She didn’t see me.”

George hummed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. “And you’ve been stewing about it since?”

“I wasn’t stewing—” Fred started, but George raised a hand to silence him, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a knowing smirk.

“Did you see what made her cry?”

“No,” Fred admitted, his tone a little quieter now. “I don’t know why. I just… it didn’t feel right to intrude.”

George studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Fair,” he said, surprising Fred by not pressing further. But before Fred could take a breath of relief, George added, “So now we’re making up for it by dragging ourselves to the library so we can study with her. It shall be a nice, friendly gesture. Very Gryffindor of us.”

Fred rolled his eyes, though the tips of his ears turned a little red. “Oh, stop it.”

“Sure,” George teased, giving Fred’s shoulder a playful shove as they reached the library doors. “Let’s hope she’s not armed with hexes if you mess this up.”

Fred muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and together, the twins stepped into the library, their usual mischief tempered—at least for now—by the weight of an unexpectedly complicated afternoon ahead.

The library was unusually busy for a Sunday afternoon, the soft hum of murmured conversations blending with the rustle of turning pages. [y/n] Malfoy moved purposefully between the towering shelves, her fingers skimming the spines of the books as she searched for something specific. The dim light filtering through the high windows cast a golden glow over the dust motes suspended in the air.

Despite the crowd, [y/n] wasn’t distracted. Her focus remained on the task at hand, though the slight crease in her brow betrayed her growing frustration. She muttered under her breath, stepping sideways to peer at the titles on a higher shelf.

“Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy,” came a familiar voice behind her, rich with amusement.

[y/n] didn’t even flinch. She reached up to adjust a book on the shelf before glancing over her shoulder. “How fast do you think word spread that the infamous Weasley twins, who never so much as glance at a book, were spotted heading for the library?”

Fred Weasley’s grin widened as he leaned casually against the end of the shelf. “Oh, undoubtedly fast. We’re a sensation, you know. Practically Hogwarts royalty.”

“And we’ve got a reputation to maintain,” George added, appearing beside his brother. “So if you’d be so kind as to free us from this dreary establishment swiftly, we’d be much obliged.”

[y/n] let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head as she turned back to her search. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Fred placed a hand over his heart in mock offence. “Insufferable, maybe. Charming, definitely.”

After another moment of searching, [y/n] finally pulled a large, dusty book from the shelf with a satisfied nod. “Found it. Come on, let’s find a table.”

She led them toward a more secluded corner of the library, weaving through the crowd with practised ease. The twins followed, Fred’s footsteps slightly heavier than George’s as he muttered something about the endless maze of books. When they reached a quiet spot tucked behind a row of ancient tomes, [y/n] set the book down on the table with a decisive thud.

“Smart choice, hiding us away like this,” George remarked, sliding into a chair. “Wouldn’t want your Slytherin friends catching you with the likes of us.”

[y/n] smirked, taking a seat opposite him. “It’s not just my friends. If anyone saw me hanging out with you two, my reputation as a Slytherin would be ruined.”

Fred’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he leaned forward. “Not just your reputation as a Slytherin. Your reputation as a Malfoy would be completely shattered.”

The lightness in [y/n]’s expression flickered, and her smile faded. She looked down at the book, her fingers brushing over its worn cover. “Let’s focus on the assignment,” she said quietly, flipping the book open.

Fred’s grin faltered. He glanced at George, who subtly shook his head, signalling to let it go. Fred leaned back in his chair, the teasing edge gone from his demeanour.

George broke the silence, tilting his head to read the title of the book. “Not exactly the first thing I’d grab for this topic. Why this one?”

[y/n]’s voice steadied as she replied, “Most people wouldn’t think of it. It’s a collection of myths and fairytales, but two of the stories are about wizards who didn’t use wands. I’ve read it before, ‘Lights and Feathers: the heroes of Ancient Europe’.”

“Ancient Europe? Sounds like something Charlie would’ve loved growing up,” Fred’s interest piqued, as he grabbed the book from [y/n]’s hands and turned it around to look at the cover.

She glanced up, curious. Fred had a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. He used to be obsessed with stuff like this,” he continued, his eyes far away, glancing at a memory. “Myths, legends, stories about magical creatures, specially in Europe. He practically lived in them when we were kids.”

“Charlie was your favourite, wasn’t he?” George grinned.

Fred didn’t hesitate. “As a kid, yeah. He was the coolest. But now?” He smirked. “My favourite brother is the one who never got born.”

George burst out laughing, earning a sharp glare from Madam Pince across the room. He quickly covered his mouth, muffling his laughter as Fred grinned triumphantly.

“You’re awful,” George said, still chuckling.

“I try,” Fred replied, his tone light. He glanced at [y/n], who was now smiling faintly, the tension from earlier easing. “So, let’s hear about these wandless wizards of yours.”

[y/n] nodded, flipping to the first marked page. As she began to explain the stories, her voice grew more confident, and the three of them leaned in, ready to delve into the peculiar world of wizarding legends.

For the next three hours, the trio was immersed in the stories from Lights and Feathers: The Heroes of Ancient Europe. The myths were as enchanting as they were peculiar, detailing feats of magic performed without wands: a wizard who commanded storms with only his voice, a healer who mended broken bones with the touch of her hands, and a peculiar alchemist who brewed potions without any visible magical aid. The twins occasionally interrupted with humorous commentary, pointing out how such abilities could make for legendary pranks, while [y/n] meticulously jotted down notes. They combed through the text, debating which details might appeal to Umbridge’s overly critical eye and which were too fantastical to be believed. By the end, the table was cluttered with pages of her elegant handwriting, yet the twins hadn’t so much as picked up a quill.

Satisfied with her work, [y/n] leaned back, stretching her fingers as she smiled at her notes. “Thanks for your help,” she said, her tone warm despite the long hours. “Even if I can only use a fraction of what we went over, this will at least make for a decent start.”

Fred, who had been idly flipping through another section of the book, glanced up and smirked. “Glad we could lend our expertise. Not every day a Malfoy thanks us, though.”

“Or anyone,” George added with a wink.

[y/n] rolled her eyes but chuckled. “Well, I do appreciate it. The stories you remembered from your brothers really added depth, even if I couldn’t use half of it.”

Fred’s gaze lingered on her as she spoke. Without her Slytherin tie or the dramatic robe trimmed with satin and fur she wore that dreadful night, she looked almost… normal. The brownish dress she wore was simple, the short sleeves revealing arms that moved with a quiet grace as she gathered her notes. But Fred noticed more than her clothes; her eyes, usually guarded and sharp, were slightly sunken, and though she smiled while discussing her plans for the essay, there was a lingering shadow of sadness in her expression—a face that had cried far too much recently.

She caught his stare and tilted her head. “What?”

Fred quickly masked his thoughts with a grin. “Just thinking how you might make the front page of The Daily Prophet if anyone saw you laughing with us.” [y/n] laughed softly, though there was a slight edge to it. Fred leaned forward, “Can’t imagine what would happen if your dear brother found out.”

For a brief moment, her smile faltered, but she quickly recovered. “Draco wouldn’t care,” she said, brushing it off. “He’s too busy trying to outshine a certain Boy Who Lived.”

George, sensing the slight tension, leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Well, since we’ve gathered enough arguments for pinky-trouble, shall we call it a successful study session?”

[y/n] nodded, neatly stacking her notes. “I’d say so. I think we’ve done enough damage to Umbridge’s peace of mind for one day.”

“Music to our ears,” Fred quipped, standing and stretching as well. “Anything else, or are we officially free of scholarly obligations?”

“No, we’re done,” she said, getting up. They followed. “Thanks again. I’ll take it from here.”

As they left the library together, Fred couldn’t help but glance at her one more time. She walked with purpose, her stack of notes held firmly in her hands, and though she’d brushed off his earlier remark, he wondered how deep the cracks in her confidence ran—and if they were anything like the cracks in the pristine Malfoy facade she so carefully maintained.

#Fred Weasley x Malfoy!Reader #harry potter #fred weasley #fred and george #Slytherin!Reader #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x reader #Malfoy reader

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beansnsoup · 2 years ago

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Forbidden savor

Fred Weasley x Malfoy!reader

Summary: You and Fred have been having a love-hate relationship going on since the 5th year, it takes one scare to force them to pick from love and hate.

Warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of blood, mentions of violence, harry potter deathly hallows part 2 spoilers, daddy issues, mentions of death

*Should be gender neutral, if there are any mistakes pls lmk

You stood in the back, hidden from the dark lord, you didn't want him or you parents to see you. They already forced Draco into walking up there and basically giving himself and his will to the dark lord. They expected you to walk out with Draco, though you loved your brother you couldn't bring yourself to it.

You haven't even received the dark mark yet, you chose to wait, and you're now glad that you did. You told your father that you wanted to show that you were worthy first, Draco on the other hand didn't have a choice. You of course felt bad for your younger brother but in the Malfoy Manor, it was sort of like every man for themselves.

You saw a certain red head glance back at you a couple of times from the corner of your eye, you refused to make eye contact with anyone around you, just in case is brought attention towards you. You would give anything to not be in this situation right now, you knew what was about to go down, and you weren't too pumped about it.

Who would?

Your school, or at this point your home, was about to be torn apart, People you grew up with were about to be killed. You also knew that after this was over and if you survived that you would be blamed, that everyone in school and their parents would curse you and your family, but yet, you wouldn't blame them.

The mood was frightening, Harry Potter had been claimed dead, it's like the whole mood that was already tampered with had gone down 10 notches.

Yet, Harry seemed to not be dead, and when he showed himself, it was like a firework had gone off, but not a nice and pretty one, like the ones that backfire and land in the woods causing a big explosion.

You ran. Far away from any death eater, towards the place you last saw you best friend. But things couldn't always go the way you planned; a familiar death eater blocked your path.

"Going somewhere? Why didn't you join us?"

"Believe me, I was going to, i just have a different plan in mind."

"Hm."

He began walking towards you, hold his wand out, gliding it up your neck to tilt up your chin,

"Don't think I won't tell him."

You knew exactly who he was talking about, you wish it was the dark lord, he was surprisingly more forgiving.

"I know."

It was barely a whisper; he snatched his wand away from your face and walked past you. You let out a sigh of relief and continued to your desired direction. When you reached the room, it was empty, as you expected. She probably ran off when she heard all the commotion when the war first broke out.

You run from that room to potions, Snape had to have had something in there that would be helpful. You walk in, scanning the room for necessities, you grab a bag that someone left unattended an dumped out the contents. You glance around for familiar colors and labels, trying to remember the notes you took in a recent class about different potions.

Grabbing about five and stuff them in the bag, you check the corridor before fully leaving the room, then you make a run for it. All the noises you hear is crashing, screaming, and grunting, it just keeps making your adrenaline go up.

The war has been going on for some bit now, and you have somehow avoided your family and the dark lord.

You are now walking towards the great hall, but on your way, you see you secret favorite Weasley lay on the ground, trying his hardest to crawl towards the same direction as you.

"Oh my God, Fred!"

He glances up at you, blood staining his face,

"Oh, hello darling,"

"Now's not the time for flirtatious games Fred."

You pick up his arms and throw them around your shoulders, you began to drag him towards the great hall where you found dozens of other injured students and teachers, even their families. You continue to drag him to a mat rolled on the floor of the hall; he lets out a wince,

"Sorry,"

You shuffle through your bag filled with potions, trying desperately to look for one that can aid him enough he won't have gone through all this suffering. You found one that was given to Snape by Madam Pomfrey, you remember him telling you about it, that it could heal the worst but only to a point where they won't be on a death bed.

It was perfect, almost unreal.

"Here,"

You tilt the bottle towards his mouth, along with some aiding leaves. He sighs after 3 mandatory sips, you put the top back on then set it aside,

"Why are you doing this?"

You stay silent for a bit, looking at him,

"I couldn't just let you suffer Fred."

He chuckles, which causes him to cough.

"Merlin, be careful."

His breathing settles, you grab a rag then lift up his shirt,

"Take me out to dinner first, love."

"You wish."

You proceed to drag the rag across his cut that lies along his stomach, also dipping it in water to take off the dries blood. His eye lids flutter shut, letting you do your thing. You then bring the rag up to his forehead, wiping off the blood there too.

"Freddie!"

You heard a shout come from the entrance of the hall, you find a pile of redheads, His mother and father, George, Ginny, and Percy. His eyes open back up, first looking at you then his family, now running to him. His mother can't seem to catch her breath, she's running her hands across his face and smothering him in kisses.

You stand up so you can them privacy,

"Darling, where are you going?" His mother asks,

"Oh, I doubt you all want me here, I just though i should give you all some privacy."

"Hun, no, it's terrible out there, and besides, you helped our son, we can't just let you leave."

You walk back up, next to Ginny, she sends you a smile, muttering a "I knew it." before looking back towards her brother talking to his twin. All of their attention is soon grabbed by the golden trio walking through the door. You stand in your spot until Fred calls you over, you walk over and squat down to his level.

"If we're both alive and well by the end of all of this, would you like to accompany me to dinner?"

You smile, "I would love to."

You finally found where you were meant to be.

#fred weasley #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley x malfoy!reader #harry potter #james phelps x reader #james phelps #malfoy manor #draco malfoy

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colmiillo · 2 months ago

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I'm not just a bitch, I'm a bitch with a backstory

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nottsangel · 5 months ago

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— hp porn links ੈ♡˳ 16k celebration.

warning: 18+ only. these are twitter links that contain porn videos. these are not fics.

includes: theodore nott, mattheo riddle, draco malfoy, tom riddle, lorenzo berkshire, pansy parkinson, fred weasley, george weasley, ron weasley and harry potter.

nav . m.list . drabbles m.list

— THEODORE NOTT

brother’s bsf!theo fucking you in your room

sex with toxic!theo after a fight

dealer!theo fucking you in his car

bf!theo using you as a stress reliever

— MATTHEO RIDDLE

roommate!mattheo fucking you while everyone’s asleep

missionary with mattheo in his dorm room

bsf!mattheo helping you relax after a long day

classmate!mattheo fucking you against his desk

— DRACO MALFOY

enemy!draco fingering you in the bathroom

draco pounding into you from behind

dom!draco spanking you when you misbehave

draco sneaking into your dorm room late at night

— TOM RIDDLE

dom!tom fucking your throat

rough sex with tom after you’ve been needy all day long

bf!tom fingering you

tom waking you up in the middle of the night

— LORENZO BERKSHIRE

roommate!enzo fucking you in your room

makeup sex with bf!enzo after an argument

dom!enzo fingering you

reverse cowgirl with bsf!enzo

— PANSY PARKINSON

making out with bsf!pansy

gf!pansy eating you out

pansy fingering you in the bathroom between classes

sleepovers with bsf!pansy

— FRED WEASLEY

bsf!fred eating you out

morning sex with roommate!fred

bf!fred fucking you after you flirt with someone else

riding fred’s face after a stressful day

— GEORGE WEASLEY

bf!george breeding you full

baking with bsf!george

morning sex with roommate!george

george fucking you raw after you pull the condom off

— RON WEASLEY

jerking off sub!ron

riding classmate!ron after class

ron fucking you against the wall

sleepy sex with bf!ron

— HARRY POTTER

needy harry fucking your thighs

missionary with harry

dom!harry fingering you from behind

shower sex with bf!harry

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cherrygirlfriend · 4 months ago

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when funkyfrogbait said “how many einsteins have spent their lives washing dishes, how many mozarts bent over stoves instead of pianos because they had the misfortune of being born a woman.”

i might mostly post smut on this account, but i write SO much more than just fanfic, and every word i write is for every woman that came before me that couldn’t write what they wanted. it’s for my mother, my grandmother and my great-grandmother as well as the women that came before.

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sivyera · 4 months ago

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nsfw headcanons and kinks of harry potter characters

ft. harry, ron, cedric, fred, george, draco, blaise, theodore, tom, hermione, pansy

a/n: well there is obviously a lot of SMUT, also it's a female reader

༺☆༻

⤷ Harry - lingerie

harry for sure loves when you wear some nice pair of lingerie, he finds it so hot when the nice lace hugs your body so perfectly. every time when he's out, he looks for some new pair of lingerie that he would buy you. oh yeah he buys you every single pair but one time, you surprised him on his b-day with red pair of lingerie (like gryffindor theme lingerie) and he was hard within seconds.

"oh- oh my fucking god, you look amazing sweetheart. do a spin for me please- slowly, i wanna see how pretty you look in this" harry hummed while he sat on his bed with you slowly turning in front of him. he could feel his hard dick pressing against his pants, pre-cum already making his boxers dirty. he brushed his hand over his erection before he hummed again. "come closer baby, i wanna touch you..."

⤷ Ron - body worship

ron was very unexperienced at the start, you were basically his first everything, first girlfriend, first kiss, first lover. so when was the first time you two had sex, he was just so mesmerized by your whole body that he had to watch himself for not cumming into his pants just from the sight of your naked body. you are gorgeous in his eyes, more than that! from that time it kinda sticked with him, every time you two have sex now, he has to worship you before anything, he wants you to know how beautiful you are on his eyes...

you could feel ron's hands tracing soft patterns over your sides while his eyes were glued to your boobs. "bloody hell, baby you are so beautiful.. " he mumbled while he moved his big palms over your boobs, squeezing them lightly. "i can't belive how lucky i'm to have you, now let me make you feel good." he added before he took off your panties and kissed his way down to your pretty cunt.

⤷ Cedric - praise kink

cedric is overall very vocal when you two have sex, he either growls, hums, groans, breaths heavily or he's mumbling praises to you. he really cannot help himself when he sees you all spread under him; your legs wrapped around him, your hands scratching his back while he holds your hips and is thrusting into you, mercilessly. he always makes sure that you can hear him properly so he usually leans closer to you, brushing his lips over your ear in soft kisses, whispering praise right into your ear.

"you're doing so good princess, taking all of me like this..." he whispers into your ear, his hips are crushing against yours, his dick hitting every right spot while you're a moaning mess under him. "you feel so good, i can't get enough of you, my sweet girl.." he groans again into your ear while his tempo isn't slowing down.

⤷ Fred - public sex

fred is thrilled with the idea of getting caught, it's the adrenaline and the possessivness from him screaming, i mean he wants people to know that you're his, that you chose him and that only HE makes you feel this good. so you two usually have sex somewhere around hogwarts. empty classroom, broom closet, empty gryffindor common room, bathroom, you name it.

"shh baby, be quiet you don't want anybody to catch us, do you?" he smirks while he has you seated on a desk in empty potion class. both of you are skipping class so it's pretty quiet outside on the hallways, anyone who will walk past can hear you. he doesn't care how loud you are because he doesn't care if you two get caught, he just wants to tease you. even tho you try to be quiet, you can't help yourself and moan again. "naughty girl yeah, let everybody know how good i make you feel..."

⤷ George - orgasm denial

george loves the face you make when he pushes you to the edge but just seconds before you're about to cum, he slows down his moves or stops completely, kissing your skin instead. he also loves teasing you but the way you get all pouty and squeeze around him when he denies you your orgasm is just something he can never get tired of. but eventually he'll let you cum and it's always the best orgasm ever.

he was thrusting into you in the perfect rhythm when you felt the familiar knot forming inside your belly, but just when the knot was about to release, he stopped. instead he immediately pressed his lips against your chest, kissing you around your boobs. "i know baby, i know... i'll give you what you want but god- when you squeeze around me like this, i can't help myself."

⤷ Draco - daddy kink

draco has big daddy issues so many of you could say that he'd hate being called daddy but he actually loves it. it makes him feel good, powerful and in control which he never was while being back home so... when you started calling him like this, he didn't let you stop. he sees you as his blessing and he wants to protect you with everything he has, like a good daddy should protect his precious baby.

"you're such a good girl for daddy, princess..." draco huffed while he was buried deep inside you. his hands were pressing your knees to your chest which made you ass go little up, letting him hit the perfect spot inside you. "yes, tell me who's your daddy? mhmf-..." he continues while you're mumbling under him. he loves when those sweet words leave your pretty mouth, it almost always makes him cum in seconds.

⤷ Blaise - bondage

blaise loves seeing how your flesh presses under the bondage, making your thighs and boobs look even more soft and squishy than they already are. he either bondages your whole body or only ankles and wrists so you can't move, but he loves both equaly. he always takes his time when he's wrapping the rope around your body but he also always makes sure that everything he does is comfortable to you, it could be dangerous for you and he doesn't wanna hurt you.

"you feelin' good, babe?" he speaks while his long fingers are brushing over your inner thighs, his eyes basically glued to the plush of them. he could feel his hard dick twitching in his boxers, leaving a small wet mark over the fabric so he quickly strokes himself before he continues. "you look so pretty like this, all just for me... take a deep breath, babe, just like this..."

⤷ Theodore - deep throat

there is nothing more theo loves more than when you are on your knees, your glassy looking up at him with tears falling down your cheeks while he hears how you are gagging on his dick. he doesn't care if you have good or bad gagging reflex, you can take it for him. if it's very serious and you just have to take a quick pause, he'll let you rest for like 30s before pushing you down on his dick again, this time little deeper than before. and when you let him cum into your mouth, you got yourself "bonus" orgasm.

"ngh- fuck baby-... your tongue feels so good around me, mhmm..." he hums while his head falls down between his shoulder blades with his fingers being tangled in your hair, pushing your head lower on his dick. his groans and moans are non-stopping while he can feel himself getting closer and closer. when he looks down at you and sees your pretty, bambi eyes already staring at him, he can feel himself cum. "oh dio-... now swallow for me, amore."

⤷ Tom - choking

choking makes feel tom in control, in control of your life while he brings you the best pleasure of your life. he can feel your pulse point under his thumb while you make this incredibly fuckable face, it drives him wild and incredibly horny. he can feel your heartbeat while he also makes you feel so good, it makes him feel powerful and he's hungry for power, any kind of power. but he'd never let you pass out, that's a big no for him.

he thrusted inside and out of you, mercilessly, while he had his hand firmly wrapped around you neck, perfectly feeling how was your heart beating through your pulse point. "oh are you about to cum? yeah, cum for me, my love..." he growled when his grip got tighter, making your eyes close in pleasure. you were still moaning under him which made him go little faster. with all of this, he came as well.

⤷ Hermione - thigh riding

hermione loves when she can multitask, it's somehow comforting to her. so one time when you found her in the library, learning for some up coming test, writing into her books; you sat on her thigh, wanting to distract her, she was hooked. she loved the feeling of you on her thigh, pleasuring yourself while she could write some notes into her textbook. from that time, she loved it and she often pulls you onto her lap with her thigh in perfect position for your pussy.

she wrote the last words into her book before her hands grabbed your hips, making you move faster, making your pussy spread over her thigh. "mhm you feel good like this? yes, you do? oh i know... come on, little faster." she mumbled into your ear, kissing you all the way down to your neck while her nails dug into your soft hips making you moan.

⤷ Pansy - face-sitting

pansy is literally obsessed with your pussy and all the noises you make when her tongue is buried deep inside you. she loves to explore all your folds because every time her tongue presses against a new spot, you squeeze your thighs around her head which makes her rub her thighs against each other. her eyes are glued on you the whole time while she presses her nose against your clit.

"mhmh come on-..." she quickly mumbles before she pushes your hips more onto her mouth while her tongue pushes deep inside you. her hands helped your hips slowly move back and forth while her tongue was licking each of your folds, swallowing each of your juice that she got on her tongue. your moans filled her ears and she could see you were getting closer which made her tongue work even faster.

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noelan1 · 7 months ago

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Do you ever read a really questionable fanfiction or a spicy love story and think "what the fuck did I just read"

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shelbybyr · 1 year ago

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When you run out of fics to read

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rose-of-the-grave · 9 months ago

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Reader: breaks up with any of my fictional crushes

Me: u dumb bitch😡 how could you do this to me???

#how tf is this even possible????#whyyyyyyyyy #reader is a backstabber #eddie munson x reader #ethan landry x reader #theodore nott x reader #mattheo riddle x reader #rafe cameron x reader #bucky barnes x reader #lorenzo berkshire x reader #draco malfoy x reader #pansy parkinson x reader #hermione granger x reader #fred weasley x reader #george weasley x reader #tom riddle x reader #billy loomis x reader #luke castellan x reader

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incorrectharrypotterblog · 1 year ago

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Hermione: why are threesomes only for sex

Hermione: why can’t I join in on a couples argument if I want to

#draco malfoy #fred weasley #george weasley #gryffindor #harry potter #hogwarts #hufflepuff #incorrect quotes #ravenclaw #ron weasly x reader #harry potter x reader #draco imagine #draco x reader #draco x hermione #dramione #fred weasly x reader #slytherin #incorrect harry potter quotes

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heartthrobin · 4 months ago

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all's fair in love and war (2)

oliver wood x female!reader

wc: 7.87k

warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest

an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers

summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.

part one

You can’t sleep.

You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.

“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”

The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.

It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?

You lingered on it all weekend.

Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.

The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.

There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.

Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.

When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.

“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.

Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.

It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.

Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.

“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”

Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.

“Hey.” He nudges gently.

You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”

The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.

“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”

It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.

You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”

He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”

You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“

“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”

There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”

His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”

“Without a doubt.”

Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”

You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.

Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”

Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”

This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.

“He said that?”

He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“

“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”

The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”

Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.

“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.

There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.

That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.

Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.

Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."

He perks: "really?"

Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.

"Ow!"

A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.

“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.

Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.

It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?

You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.

“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.

The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.

It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.

Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.

“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”

You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.

Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”

Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”

"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."

Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."

He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.

"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"

Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."

"Tense?"

"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"

At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.

"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.

Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"

Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"

Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"

The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.

"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."

"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."

Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"

"She said that, too."

Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"

"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."

A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"

Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."

He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."

"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"

You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."

"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"

"Yes." You don't look at her.

The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"

You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.

She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."

"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.

The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.

Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.

The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"

You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.

Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.

Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.

"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"

You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"

Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."

"She's just answering your question, professor."

Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.

You fight the twitching urge to look at him.

"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."

A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.

Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.

You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.

Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.

Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.

It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.

'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'

Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.

'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'

You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.

There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.

'Maybe.

We good?'

There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.

You hunch over the note again.

Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.

He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.

When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.

'Never :)'

His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.

"What you looking so damn happy about?"

Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."

"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"

"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"

Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."

He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.

Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.

In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.

The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.

You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.

But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.

Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.

Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.

He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.

You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.

"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.

He huffs.

Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.

It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"

You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.

Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.

Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.

The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.

It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.

Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."

You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.

Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.

Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.

"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"

The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."

On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.

There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.

Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.

He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.

It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.

Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.

But lately he's foggier than usual.

You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.

Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.

Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.

Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.

You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.

The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.

Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"

You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.

The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.

There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.

The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.

Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.

Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.

Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.

Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.

"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"

It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.

Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.

You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.

Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.

Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.

He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.

"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"

A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.

Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.

His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.

Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.

"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"

Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.

"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"

It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.

"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"

After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.

The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.

He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.

Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?

The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.

There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.

Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.

Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.

So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.

You're not at dinner.

He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."

Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."

Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."

He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.

Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.

"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.

Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.

He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.

"What does it look like, Arch."

Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."

He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"

Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.

You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.

The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.

By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.

The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.

The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.

It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.

"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.

He shrugs. "Not today."

You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.

There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.

"You missed dinner."

"Does it matter?"

Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.

There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."

He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.

You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.

"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"

His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."

By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."

You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.

The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.

You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."

He nods. "I know."

"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"

Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.

"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."

You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.

"You wouldn't."

"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.

Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."

Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.

"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.

He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."

The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.

By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.

Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.

You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.

His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.

You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.

Oliver hasn't been sleeping.

His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.

Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.

Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.

"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"

He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.

He won.

Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.

He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.

It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.

He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.

Will you forget him?

It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.

He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.

You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--

The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.

A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.

His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"

Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.

This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.

"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."

There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.

"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.

The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.

He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.

It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.

"Wood! What are you do--"

His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."

Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.

With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"

He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.

"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.

You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."

Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."

He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.

"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"

A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.

"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."

"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.

"So, is that a yes?"

You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.

"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.

He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"

You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.

It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.

It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.

Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.

"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."

He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."

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jamilelucato · 6 days ago

Text

Secrets We Keep - 4 [F. W.]

Pairing: Fred Weasley x [y/n] Malfoy

Secrets We Keep Masterlist

Summary: As [y/n] Malfoy prepares for her arranged marriage, she grapples with her disillusionment and longing for freedom. Fred Weasley haunts her thoughts, and she ultimately escapes the life set for her.

Warning: family drama, mild angst, cursing.

A/N: And here we are, the end of this story. It’s been a journey filled with both sadness and relief. Writing this was tough, especially with [y/n]’s bittersweet path. I hope some of you found something to connect with, even if it’s dark. Thank you for sticking with me!

PART FOUR

The beginning of planning her arranged marriage came the summer after her seventh year at Hogwarts. [y/n] Malfoy stood in the ornate study of Malfoy Manor, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and old parchment. She turned the first reply card over in her hands, its edges embossed with gold. Thanking them for the invitation, it read, with all the decorum expected from their circle. The white, gilt-edged invitations had already been sent—date, time, and place meticulously planned by Narcissa, who had a penchant for perfection.

“The Carrows are a respectable family,” [y/n] muttered under her breath, echoing the words her parents had so often said. Her voice was low, sardonic. “This union secures alliances and ensures my… comfortable life.”

Comfortable. The word tasted bitter, coated in disillusionment. It would undoubtedly be a life of luxury; she did not doubt the Carrows' wealth could rival her own family’s. But what did comfort mean in the world her parents envisioned? Gilded cages and polished chains.

Her eyes landed on a parchment resting atop the mahogany desk—a letter from Alecto Carrow’s eldest son, her husband-to-be. She had never met him. His handwriting was beautiful, each stroke elegant, the ink gliding across the page as though it carried importance. The words, however, felt hollow: “I am glad to unite our families through you. I have heard a great deal about your refinement and grace.”

She snorted softly. Refinement and grace? Was that all she amounted to in his eyes?

Well, not shockingly, she knew almost nothing of him—his name only barely etched in her memory. Aiden, or perhaps it was Alec? The family seemed fond of ‘A’ names, but for all she knew, she might as well have been marrying the patriarch, Alecto himself. The letter continued, a boastful recounting of his horses, estates, and their holdings in Scotland.

[y/n] skimmed the page, her interest waning. A man should write of himself if he hoped to court a woman properly. How tall was he? Athletic or slender? Did he carry himself with dignity or merely posture? Was he clever—prone to unconventional thoughts and daring solutions? Was he kind or fierce, perhaps fire-hearted enough to intrigue her? What she needed was not a list of properties, but a glimpse of the man behind the name.

But none of that mattered. Not really. Whether charming or dull, she would marry him. She had no choice in the matter. Yet, as she stared at the letter, she found herself scoffing not only at its lack of substance but at the bitter truth beneath her dissatisfaction: he wasn’t Fred Weasley. No description of his athleticism or cleverness, no fiery wit or daring spirit leapt from the page. Her fiancé’s words painted no picture of a man who could make her laugh, challenge her, or infuriate her with his reckless bravery. He wasn’t Fred, and that fact gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.

Fred Weasley—a reckless, foolish symbol of rebellion. And look what it had earned her: nothing but a hollow engagement and a life she could barely stomach. Nothing had changed.

“You are a Malfoy,” Lucius’s voice cut sharply through her thoughts, heavy with authority. “Act like it.��

And so she did. Or, at least, she performed.

The Death Eater meetings were a far cry from the glittering parties of her youth. Held in secret locations, they carried an oppressive air of dark rituals and whispered schemes. As the engagement solidified, [y/n] found herself attending more often. As a woman among men, she was dismissed as an accessory—a passive observer left to linger in shadowed corners or in the kitchens of the grand houses that hosted these gatherings.

She loathed every second. The words exchanged were laced with cruelty and bloodlust, ambition tainted by the iron tang of violence. In those moments, she felt like an intruder in a world where morality had been strangled. Yet, she could not leave. Not without consequence.

Her introduction to her betrothed came at one such meeting. The parlour was steeped in tradition, its atmosphere stifling with expectations. She wore her finest robes, their emerald sheen catching the dim light as she extended her hand. She almost faltered when introduced, realizing she had barely committed his first name to memory. Was it Aiden, Alec, or perhaps another forgettable 'A'? The realization brought a faint blush of irritation to her cheeks, but she masked it swiftly, her polished exterior remaining intact.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Mr. Aiden,” she said, her voice polished and detached.

“The pleasure is mine, Miss [y/n],” he replied, brushing a chaste kiss against her knuckles. His touch was impersonal, his gaze measured. A performance, like hers.

She held back a sigh. What was this, 1878? She half-expected him to recite poetry while fanning himself with a handkerchief. Every word exchanged felt rehearsed, devoid of any genuine curiosity or intent to connect. He seemed as uninterested in knowing her as she was in him, their interaction a hollow charade orchestrated by their parents. She still didn’t know the man before her, and he had done nothing to change that.

All of it felt like a relic of another age, a carefully choreographed performance where neither party could deviate from the script. The whole evening felt less like her life and more like a contract being signed on her behalf, one inked with duty and sealed with tradition. And yet, she entertained a sliver of hope. Perhaps their closeness in age—a mere four years—might bridge the gap. Perhaps he would turn out to be interesting, a distraction from the thoughts of another boy with fire in his heart.

Her mother’s subtle gestures through the evening—a gentle touch on her arm, a fleeting glance—were meant to reassure her. Instead, they felt like chains tightening with every breath.

The final straw came at the dress fitting. The shop was a cathedral of decadence, its silk-draped walls and crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow over racks of gowns. Madam Yvette, a master seamstress, fluttered around [y/n] like a diligent bird, pinning, measuring, adjusting.

When she finally stood before the mirror, she gasped. The dress was a marvel, its white silk threaded with silver and encrusted with tiny, sparkling gems. It clung to her frame like a dream, each movement casting ripples of light. It was everything a bride could desire.

She desired it.

She hated how much she loved it. The gown was a masterpiece, a testament to wealth and artistry. Yet, staring at her reflection, she felt like one of the porcelain dolls from her childhood—beautiful, fragile, and utterly lifeless.

There was a need to loathe it. To make the dress a symbol of her rebellion, a thing she could despise as easily as the life it represented. But it was perfect, and that perfection mocked her. This was no rebellion. It was surrender.

That night, beneath the pale light of an enchanted candle, [y/n] made her decision. It was not a sudden resolve, but one that had been growing, coiling tighter with every restrictive expectation placed upon her. She packed quietly, methodically, her movements almost reverent. Into the small trunk went a few priceless robes and pieces of jewellery—not as tokens of sentimentality, but as a means of survival, a safeguard for a life she had yet to imagine.

Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of a silver bracelet Narcissa had gifted her years ago. It was delicate, intricate, and entirely impractical. She hesitated, her hand hovering before snapping the trunk shut. Her mother’s face rose unbidden in her mind, not cruel, but weary, burdened by her own sacrifices. There was love there, but it was a conditional love—bound by family legacy, by bloodlines and obedience. Sentimentality was a luxury she could not afford, and so she left it behind.

Where could she go? The question loomed, heavy and unrelenting. Not to any wizarding family, not even to a distant cousin. Her parents’ reach would be too great, their eyes everywhere. She needed a place that would not just hide her but make her invisible, unworthy of pursuit. A world so mundane it bordered on offensive.

[y/n] could see it in her mind’s eye—everything her parents despised, everything they deemed beneath them. And that was precisely why they would never look for her there.

Her decision made, she approached the gates of Malfoy Manor. The iron bars, etched with serpents, seemed almost alive in the moonlight, their coiled bodies gleaming as though watching her, judging her. Her hand trembled as she gripped her wand, drawing in a steadying breath. The house loomed behind her, a fortress of memories both bitter and sweet. A place that had shaped her, bound her, and now sought to consume her.

With one last glance, she disappeared. The crack of magic echoed faintly in the still night, leaving the grounds of Malfoy Manor silent and emptier than ever.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Funny how time changed the meaning of a word. Comfort. It had been a foreign concept once—something she scoffed at, even feared—but now, it fit snugly around her life, like an old jumper. The Muggle world, of all places, had become her sanctuary. A strange thought, given its lack of magic, but perhaps that was why it worked.

[y/n] Malfoy—though she’d long since shed that infamous surname—had carved a niche for herself among the oblivious. She moved smartly and swiftly, carefully constructing a life that Muggles wouldn’t think to question. To them, she was just another ambitious young woman with a knack for getting things done. If they ever wondered why her productivity seemed superhuman, well, they didn’t wonder for long. Humans, she’d learned, preferred explanations that fit their neat, non-magical world.

Factories, offices, anywhere requiring efficiency—she conquered them all. While others struggled through tedious tasks, she worked quietly, subtly enhancing her efforts with spells too delicate for even a squib to detect. Within two years, she’d climbed to the top of her field, her desk now buried under contracts, cheques, and invitations from Muggle elites. The money poured in faster than she could spend it, not that she cared much for the luxuries it offered. A second flat in one of London’s poshest postcodes? Sure, why not.

Her heart, if she allowed herself to examine it, still belonged to the Wizarding World. But that life was closed to her now, and perhaps it was better that way. She’d caught whispers of how things had unfolded after the war. Malfoy—the name she’d once worn like armour—was now more curse than legacy. Her brother had slipped back into the family’s fading business; her father had disappeared entirely, becoming little more than a shadow haunting whispers in darkened rooms. The family had been shunned, tolerated at best. Good.

She thought of them rarely, their faces blurred by distance and time, but she liked knowing that the world had sided with the good and the brave. Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. The ones who stood up and stood firm. For once, she could admire them without bitterness.

Her own exile was self-imposed, but necessary. The Wizarding World had become too tangled with pain and shame. Better to focus on the Human World, with its predictable rules and simple ambitions. Her life here was steady and controlled, though sometimes, late at night in her quiet flat, she caught herself wondering.

Would they even recognize her now? The girl she had been, the choices she had made—they felt like they belonged to someone else. Here, she was no one special, and yet, that was freeing in a way she hadn’t expected. Still, no matter how far she moved from the magic, it always lingered, a soft hum in the back of her mind.

But life in the Muggle world wasn’t entirely solitary. Over time, [Y/N] had made a few friends at her office, a small but lively group of young women who had welcomed her into their fold. They were sharp, driven, and wonderfully uncomplicated. They cared about promotions, weekend plans, and the latest trends, but never about where she’d come from or why her accent carried the faint trace of an old-world upbringing.

To them, she was just [Y/N]—quirky, a little guarded, but always reliable in a crisis. They called her the “office wizard,” a nickname she laughed at far harder than she should have, and often dragged her to after-work drinks at pubs where the music was too loud and the lights too dim. She found herself appreciating their company more than she’d expected.

They didn’t ask questions she couldn’t answer, didn’t pry into a past she would rather not share. Sometimes, as they swapped stories over pints, she marvelled at their ease, at the way they seemed to carry their lives so lightly. When the inevitable topic of relationships came up, as it always did, she listened quietly, smiling in all the right places but contributing little.

It was inevitable, of course, that someone would notice.

“Alright, Miss Mysterious,” teased Clara, a vivacious blonde from accounting, one Friday evening as they sat crammed into a booth. “You’re always so quiet when we talk about boys. Come on, spill. How many guys have you dated?”

[Y/N] froze for a split second, her hand tightening around her glass. She should have seen this coming. She could lie, of course, craft some plausible story to satisfy their curiosity, but she hated lying to them. These were good people—Muggles, yes, but kind ones.

“Not many,” she admitted with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve been… focused on work.”

Ah, the classic dodge. Clara raised an eyebrow, and the other women exchanged knowing glances, but mercifully, they let it drop. The conversation flowed back to safer territory—Clara’s latest Tinder misadventures and the office intern’s questionable taste in trousers.

[Y/N] sipped her drink, grateful for the reprieve, but her mind had already wandered, unbidden, to the one boy she couldn’t seem to forget.

Fred Weasley.

She could still see his cheeky grin, the way he made light of everything, even when the world had been crumbling around them. The memory of him had softened with time, but it hadn’t faded. And then there was the kiss.

She still remembered it; his hands cupping her face, his lips warm and insistent against hers. For that fleeting moment that she had let herself respond, her guard dropping entirely. And then, as if on instinct, she had ruined it. She’d pulled away, stammering something incoherent, her walls slamming back into place. Fred had looked at her then—surprised, confused, and just a little hurt.

The memory still haunted her, no matter how much she tried to bury it.

She knew very little about what had become of him after the war. He was alive—that much she knew, though for a while, even that had been uncertain. He worked with his brother in a shop she barely understood, something to do with jokes. That was all she allowed herself to gather, never daring to dig deeper.

And yet, the name Weasley—his name—remained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts.

It should have meant nothing to her by now. It should have been nothing more than a relic of a life she’d left behind.

So why wasn’t it?

TWO MONTHS LATER

Damn Clara and her Muggle curiosity.

It was eight a.m. [Y/N] should already be in her glass-walled office on the seventh floor of one of London’s most prestigious buildings. She should be there, sipping coffee and reviewing contracts. She wasn’t.

Instead, she stood in front of a shop whose garish facade practically shouted for attention. Vibrant reds and oranges painted its tall walls, while enchanted displays in the windows whirred, spun, and sparkled with an almost irritating glee. Occasionally, one of the joke items would roll or float to the glass as though inspecting her. Each time, her sharp, impatient glare seemed to say, Yes, I’m still here. Now open already.

Above it all, a bold, playful sign declared: Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

It was past eight a.m., and the shop showed no signs of opening anytime soon. That should have been her cue to leave. You do not belong in Diagon Alley any more, a small, sharp voice in her head reminded her.

Maybe it was right. She didn’t belong—not any more. Her dyed brownish hair might fool the casual observer, but the telltale silver-blond roots gave her away, a reminder of the family she had tried so hard to leave behind. No amount of Muggle integration could erase the threads of her Malfoy past; they clung to her like cobwebs, woven into her very identity.

Even her appearance gave her away. She had dressed with what she thought was a flair for eccentricity—a calculated blend of high fashion and Wizarding nostalgia. Her knee-high designer boots gleamed under her long, luxurious black fur-lined coat, both costly and ostentatious. She’d imagined herself blending in effortlessly, perhaps even standing out in a way that would make her look authentically at home. But no, she realized now, she’d got it wrong. The bustling streets of Diagon Alley, alive with the warmth of fresh-brewed coffee and the hum of early morning commerce, seemed to whisper to her as if the cobblestones themselves carried a message, “We see you, Little Malfoy.”

And she was certain they did. Witches and wizards passing by spared her sidelong glances, quick and furtive, as if confirming what they thought they recognized but dared not voice aloud. Perhaps a chatty house-elf had already darted off to Malfoy Manor to announce her return.

And yet, here she stood, waiting.

Waiting for what, exactly? A confrontation? An explanation? Or simply a distraction from the restless questions plaguing her mind ever since Clara had barged into her office yesterday, looking pale and uneasy.

“Are you alright, Clara?” [Y/N] had asked, raising an eyebrow at her normally unflappable friend.

Clara hesitated, biting her lip. “You told me about that boy from your… younger years, didn’t you? The red-haired one?”

[Y/N] stiffened but nodded cautiously. “Fred?”

“I think… I think I saw him in my dream last night,” Clara said, her tone unsure. “I’m not much of a dreamer, really, but this felt… strange.”

That had caught [Y/N]’s attention. “Go on.”

Clara fidgeted, her unease growing. “He asked about you. Called you a coward, if I remember right. It was—well, creepy, honestly. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know what he looks like. Not only that, but I only know one ginger person, my cousin Elena. This wasn’t her. He was tall with broad shoulders.”

The description hit [Y/N] like a Bludger to the chest. That was Fred. It couldn’t be anyone else.

For hours afterward, Clara’s words had replayed in her mind, feeding a gnawing unease. It was one thing for her dreams to be haunted by Fred Weasley—that she could accept. He was a ghost from her past, after all, a lingering shadow of what could never be. But Clara? A Muggle who had never set foot in the Wizarding World?

It wasn’t normal.

It had to be Fred’s doing. Or something tied to him. And so, despite every instinct telling her to turn back, [Y/N] had Apparated to Diagon Alley at dawn, standing in the shadow of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes as if the answers she sought might come tumbling out with the day’s first customers.

But the shop remained stubbornly closed.

“Typical,” she muttered under her breath, glowering at the enchanted shopfront. Her fingers curled into fists inside her coat pockets, knuckles pressing against her wand. She could almost imagine him inside, laughing at her expense.

After everything it had taken her to get here—alright, so Apparating wasn’t that hard, but the thought of doing it again after so long had been daunting—she wasn’t about to turn tail and leave. If Fred wanted to keep avoiding her, well then, fine. She’d be the one to show up in his dreams next time, calling him a coward. That thought was satisfying enough to momentarily soften her scowl.

Still, she couldn’t shake the frustration simmering under her skin. She glanced around Diagon Alley, careful to avoid meeting the curious gazes of passers-by. Every other business was already up and running, their doors open, their owners busy tending to customers. But Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes? Quiet as the grave.

Her eyes roamed the building’s vibrant facade, taking in the rotating joke items in the windows that almost seemed to mock her. Then her gaze snagged on something she’d nearly missed: a side entrance, discreet but not entirely hidden. It didn’t lead into the shop itself—that much was clear—but to a narrow staircase ascending to what had to be the flats above.

“Bingo,” she murmured to herself, the corners of her mouth twitching upward in satisfaction. Of course, Fred and George would live above their shop. That was obvious now. And why wouldn’t they? The arrangement was practical, convenient, and knowing them, probably a little chaotic. She herself might have done the same if her office building had been zoned for residential living.

Her eyes narrowed at the staircase. If Fred wouldn’t come to her, then maybe she’d just have to go to him.

The first door—the one leading to the staircase—was conveniently ajar. She hesitated for a moment, her mind wandering to wizarding security measures she might have forgotten. Surely, the Weasleys had something in place? But then again, in the Muggle world, all you needed were keys and staff. Simpler times, simpler problems.

The staircase ahead was steep, the narrow space cramped and dimly lit. She glanced at the steps as she ascended, her thoughts wandering idly. How did anyone carry furniture up here? She wondered, picturing Fred or George wrestling with a sofa on these stairs.

Oh, right. Magic.

The realization was immediate, and she caught herself smirking at her own forgetfulness. It was strange, almost comforting, how much her thinking had shifted to match the Muggle world. Keys instead of charms, staff instead of wards—it felt… simpler.

At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a narrow corridor with four doors, two on each side. She paused, scanning them curiously. So the twins shared their building with three other flats. Interesting. Why she found this detail intriguing, she couldn’t say, but she filed it away in her mind nonetheless.

The real question, however, was which door led to Fred’s flat. She could knock, of course—work her way down the line, one by one—but the thought made her stomach twist with self-consciousness. What if she was mistaken? What if she interrupted someone she would rather not see?

Her gaze lingered on the nearest door, but her imagination had already run off. It wasn’t just strangers who might answer, but ghosts of her past, familiar faces she hadn’t seen in years. Fred wasn’t the only Gryffindor she remembered vividly. Could Angelina Johnson live here? Lee Jordan? Oliver Wood?

Her pulse quickened, and not in a good way. She had no idea where any of them were now, no sense of their lives post-war. Would they recognize her? Would they even want to? For all she knew, these doors could open to a past she wasn’t ready to face, filled with memories of Quidditch captains and old rivalries she had tried to leave behind.

And here she was, almost a CEO—practically guaranteed to inherit the title once her boss retired—and she was hesitating like a schoolgirl afraid to get caught out of bounds. How absurd.

Ultimately, she chose to embrace the absurdity. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she leaned against the wall closest to the stairs, her knees buckling as she slid down to sit. She drew her legs up close to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and let her gaze wander down the hallway of doors. Eventually, Fred—or George—would have to leave the flat.

A question nagged at the back of her mind, one that she hadn’t thought about until now. Could she still tell Fred apart from George?

Shaking her head and trying to let that for later, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out her wand, the one she hadn’t touched in years. The familiar wood felt cool beneath her fingers as she absent-mindedly ran her hand along its length. It had been so long since she’d used it, tucked away in the back of her wardrobe like some forgotten relic.

In the human world, she'd built a life from the ground up—money, prestige, luxuries she never wanted to give up on—and the wand now felt as useless to her as a pair of glasses without a prescription. It was a piece of her past, a reminder of the world she had left behind. And yet, here it was in her hands, as if to remind her that no matter how much she’d changed, some parts of her would always remain.

“Blimey! Is that [y/n] Malfoy?”

The voice came out strong, firm, with a hint of surprise—definitely not accusatory or worried, but it certainly had her attention. It wasn’t one she was expecting to hear.

She blinked and slowly looked up from her wand, her knees relaxing as she processed the words. Ron Weasley? Her heart gave a small, unexpected lurch. It was him.

She hadn’t seen Ron in years, but as her eyes took him in, it hit her: he was no longer the whiny, awkward redhead she’d remembered from their school days. He was taller now, solidly built, with the familiar red hair still untamed but now paired with a more confident air. He stood in front of her, his broad shoulders practically filling the doorway, casting a shadow that made her feel smaller than she already was.

Ron was leaving one of the flats—the second one on the right—and just behind him, another familiar ginger was emerging. As Ron stepped aside, making room to pass, [y/n] realized with a jolt that it could only be one of the twins. With a key in hand, Fred—[y/n] could feel the certainty in her gut that it was him, not George—peered over Ron’s broad shoulders, his gaze searching.

Fred glanced over Ron’s shoulder, and his expression shifted instantly. What had begun as mild confusion deepened into a quiet, almost disappointed suspicion when his eyes landed on her.

“Hello, Ronnie,” [y/n] ventured with a smile that felt a little too sweet, too forced, as if she were trying to hide the confusion swirling inside her. Why was she even here again?

From Ron’s reaction, she couldn’t help but think that he had probably greeted everyone with that same warm, almost automatic smile since the war. It seemed genuine enough, but [y/n] suspected it wasn’t really for her. It was that unspoken relief that everyone who’d survived shared—the one where you were thankful to be alive, even if some of you came from families with blood-stained histories.

Despite that, [y/n] returned his smile, this time with more sincerity. After spending so much time in the mundane, human world, genuine smiles had become easier—no longer the practised, photogenic grins she once wore for show.

As Ron stepped closer, Fred Weasley took his time, carefully locking the front door to his flat. He turned his back to both Ron and [y/n], choosing to focus on his simple task, seemingly unwilling to acknowledge the ghost of his past standing just a few feet away.

[y/n] straightened herself, trying to play it cool, and Ron kindly offered a hand to help her up.

“Thanks,” she smiled again, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she brushed off some imaginary dust from her clothes, now that she was upright.

“It’s good to see you,” Ron said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “I don’t even remember the last time we saw each other. Was it at Hogwarts… in that damn battle?” he asked, uncertain, with a faint of hardship creeping into his words.

She could lie. She could say yes, tell him she’d been right there beside him in the thick of the fight, bravely standing her ground. But she didn’t.

“No, I think you saw me last at my graduation,” [y/n] answered honestly.

“Oh!” Ron’s face lit up. “The one Fred and George didn’t get.”

[y/n] couldn’t help but grin at the memory. In another life—one where she wasn’t standing here like an uninvited ghost—Fred would have laughed and given Ron a light thump on the back of the head. But not today. Not with her in the picture.

Instead, Fred stood there, silent, his gaze flicking between the two of them. His brow furrowed, and he arched an eyebrow. The expression wasn’t for Ron—it was for her. And it asked the unspoken question: “What on earth are you doing here?”

Or perhaps it was more like: “What the bloody hell do you want?”

[y/n] couldn’t decide. Either way, it didn’t seem good.

She quickly slipped her wand back into her coat pocket, where it seemed safer than being out in the open, and left her hand there, just in case it would prevent her from doing something foolish. She was already feeling the stirrings of anger, both Fred’s and hers, and it was only a matter of time before things escalated.

“So, what brings you here?” Ron asked, saving Fred the trouble. The younger brother suddenly realized that it made no sense to find the Malfoy girl (Malfoy woman now, let’s respect her age) on Fred’s doorstep.

Or did it make sense?

As [y/n] cleared her throat, Fred's gaze sharpened, narrowing into something that could only be described as curiously bitter. Meanwhile, Ron, bless him, took a step back, looking anywhere but at her, his lips twitching into a mischievous grin of his. Clearly, he’d misread the situation entirely. Ron had a knack for romance ever since Hermione presented him to the genre.

“I need to talk to your brother, Ron,” [y/n] explained, her voice firm as she addressed the younger Weasley, though her eyes remained firmly fixed on the older ginger. She couldn’t help but notice, with a faint feeling of surprise, that Ron was, in fact, taller than Fred.

That wasn’t to say Fred was ugly. Quite the opposite. Far from it. Time had only been kind to Fred Weasley. In fact, time had given him that rugged charm that many men only dreamt of—broad shoulders, a jawline that seemed sculpted by a particularly talented artist, and eyes that could make even the hardest of hearts pause.

And then there was the hair. Oh, the hair. At twenty-two—or was it twenty-three? [y/n] never bothered to ask his birthday, but it didn’t matter—Fred had something most men his age would envy. Hair. Proper hair. Thick, straight, and voluminous, with a sheen that made [y/n] momentarily question the state of her locks. It looked as if it had been kissed by a thousand golden suns, and God help her, she could still remember how it felt to run her fingers through it—soft as silk, far too soft for someone who was so damn irritating.

What had initially seemed like disinterest—no, scratch that, anger—suddenly morphed into a more subtle form of curiosity on Fred Weasley’s face.

Ron grinned awkwardly. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I think I’ll head over to the shop now, if that’s alright with you, Fred?”

Fred didn’t bother to respond verbally, merely offering a nod that lacked any real enthusiasm. He was still too busy trying to process why [y/n] was standing in his doorway with all the poise of a person who had every right to be there, when he had been certain he’d left her—and her family—far behind.

“Do you open at nine?” [y/n] asked suddenly, her voice light, the question easing the tension in her muscles. “Who opens at nine?” she almost laughed.

“It’s my shop,” Fred snapped back, his tone rougher than he’d intended. “I open whenever I want.”

[y/n] straightened her back, feeling her sharp words come back with more force than she'd anticipated. “Well, you're losing money, then,” she remarked, as naturally rude as any Malfoy could be. It was in the blood, really. Besides, the Muggle world had taught her a thing or two about business—and how to make a proper profit.

Fred blinked, momentarily stunned. “Do you want me to show you my income statement?” he retorted, genuinely flabbergasted by her cheek. And there it was—Fred was rolling in it now, with a business that could make even the tightest of Gringotts goblins envious.

“There’s no need,” she replied nonchalantly, eyes fixed on him as though they were discussing the weather.

At this point, Ron, who had been lingering, cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Invite her in,” he suggested helpfully. “Offer her the tea I just made. It should still be warm.”

Fred attempted to summon a comet to smite his brother’s head—unsuccessfully, given his wandless ineptitude. Ron left, down the stairs with easiness.

The ginger that stayed sighed, gestured at the door with all the staged grace, and rolled his eyes. “Fine, come on in, then. Can’t have you standing out here, with all the neighbours, one step from seeing you.”

Rude, she thought, but waited for the door to be open again and walked in.

The door swung shut behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. It was, of course, quiet inside. Where was George? She wondered. The flat was a little too cosy, although it was as if two grown men had perfected the art of cramming chaos into every nook. It was classic Weasley: part 'creative charm,' part 'why bother?' with a smattering of 'it’ll do' thrown in for good measure. The space was cluttered with various items, mismatched furniture, and—strangely enough—several unclaimed joke products scattered about like forgotten experiments. A few odd contraptions blinked softly in the corners, their flashing lights flickering like distant stars.

There was also the smell that hung. The green tea was sharp and familiar, a good morning choice, but beneath it lingered something distinctly masculine—warm, like well-worn wood, a trace of shaving cream, and the faint, spicy note of what [y/n] supposed was Fred’s cologne, which seemed as roguish as its owner.

[y/n] turned to find Fred in the kitchen—a narrow, galley-style space that somehow managed to be both cramped and charming. The marble counter separating it from the living room was a surprising touch of elegance, though slightly marred by scorch marks and stray stains. Fred was heeding Ron’s advice, fussing with the tea kettle as though brewing it required profound wizarding expertise. Spotting two tall, battered stools nearby, she perched on one, the wood creaking in protest. Fred didn’t join her. Instead, he slid the cup across the counter with controlled ease, before leaning casually against the counter with the sink.

“To what do I owe the honour of hearing your voice again?” he asked, casually annoyed.

“To yourself, I suppose,” [Y/N] replied crisply, lifting her teacup with a deliberate air of disinterest. The cup's delicate edge pressed against her lips, muffling what she muttered next. “I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t tormented me.”

Fred’s brows shot up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I torment you?” he repeated, mock incredulity dripping from his words. “Blimey, I don’t see how, but somehow I’m proud of myself. Although…” He trailed off, adopting an exaggeratedly thoughtful pose. “I suspect, somehow, it’s all your fault.”

The look she shot him—arched eyebrow, narrowed eyes—spoke volumes. It was a “don’t-you-dare” glare so potent it could have stopped an army of garden gnomes mid-chaos. Fred held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Or,” he added quickly, a trace of nervousness slipping into his tone, “your unconscious’s fault, maybe?”

“I don’t see how,” she said evenly, her voice carrying the same clipped, deliberate cadence he’d just used.

His grin broadened.

“Now, Malfoy,” he teased, dragging her surname out as though it were the punchline to a private joke, “it’s not my fault you’re still losing sleep over a teenage fling. Over a little peck.”

Her teacup clinked loudly as she set it down, the sound slicing through the air. A little peck? Her fingers tightened slightly on the table’s edge, her posture straightening. He couldn’t still be a lunatic, could he? Surely, he’d grown up, matured, learned to let bygones be bygones. Apparently not.

Two paths stretched before her, like diverging trails in the Forbidden Forest: she could bite back, dragging him through the truth of their not-so-innocent history—a truth they both remembered all too well—or she could stay the course, pressing her accusation that he had been invading her dreams with magic.

The “what ifs” always stung sharper than the “so it was.”

“Fred,” she said at last, her voice measured, a sigh lacing her words, “I won’t get into this petty squabble with you.” She paused, collecting her thoughts, before fixing him with a steady look. “I only came here because you had the nerve to pick on a Muggle—an innocent person.”

Fred’s smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine confusion. “A Muggle?” he echoed, straightening slightly.

“Yes,” she pressed on, her tone sharp. “I wouldn’t be here if your little haunted nightmare game involved just me. But tormenting Clara? That’s low, even for you.”

The confusion on Fred’s face deepened. “Clara?” he repeated, as though the name was foreign to him.

[Y/N] crossed her arms, frustration bubbling just beneath her composed exterior. “She’s my friend,” she said pointedly, watching his reaction carefully.

Fred’s head tilted slightly, his expression now hovering somewhere between perplexed and intrigued. “And… she’s been having nightmares about me?” he asked slowly, the faintest hint of a grin tugging at his lips again.

[Y/N] didn’t answer immediately, her jaw tightening as she debated her next words. “She dreamt of you,” she admitted, her tone clipped. “But that’s not the point. The point is…” Her voice wavered for a fraction of a second, betraying the frustration she was trying to mask. “If this is your doing, you’ve crossed a line.”

For a moment, Fred simply stared at her, his usual swagger replaced with something closer to disbelief. And then, much to her irritation, he laughed—a low, warm sound that filled the space between them.

“Malfoy,” he said, shaking his head as his laughter subsided, “you think I’m invading people’s dreams now? What do you reckon I am—a rogue boggart with a wand?”

Her glare didn’t waver. “Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, though she wasn’t entirely sure he was playing. “You’re capable of far more than you let on.”

Fred’s grin returned in full force, his confidence clearly undented. “Well,” he said, pushing off the counter and leaning toward her slightly, “if I’m such a menace, then you’re just going to have to teach me a lesson, aren’t you?”

[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, biting back the retort that rose instinctively to her lips. Instead, she took another deliberate sip of her tea, the porcelain cool against her fingertips. If she wasn’t careful, this conversation would spiral completely out of her control. It was Fred, after all—and if there was one thing he excelled at, it was pulling strings until the entire tapestry unravelled.

“For God’s sake, you're still annoyingly incapable of seeing things, aren’t you?” [Y/N] exclaimed, frustration edging her voice. “I’m not going to curse you. I want my peace—and Clara’s—back. Just tell me you’ll fix this, and I’ll leave. Go back to my life.”

“‘For God’s sake’ and friends with a Muggle? What happened to you, Malfoy?” Fred mocked, a laugh bubbling up. “Turned into a squib?”

“I wish I was,” she muttered, no longer bothering to mask the exhaustion in her voice. “Then at least these nightmares would stop.” She glanced up at him, no longer caring about his ridicule. “You know magic, Fred. You know how it works. It’s more about emotion than the fancy incantations.”

“Yes,” Fred tilted his head slightly, “and so what?”

“So,” she pressed, “we need the goodbye we never got. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want your goodbye, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want mine, either. But a part of us does, and until we get that, these dreams… they won’t stop.”

For a moment, silence fell. [Y/N] felt her heart race. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take, but the truth was now hanging between them like an electric charge.

Her voice softened, the usual sharp edge gone. She looked at him, the boy who once held her while she cried in the dead of night in the hallway outside Dumbledore’s office. “Tell me you haven’t been dreaming too, and I’ll walk away. Tell me I didn’t show up in your dreams and turn them into nightmares, and I’ll go away. I’ll claim to the world that I’m the emotionally immature one, that I couldn’t get over you. Go ahead, tell me that.”

Fred opened his mouth as if to speak, but the words got stuck. For a split second, his ever-present smirk faltered. The silence stretched, and [Y/N] knew—knew—he wouldn’t be able to say it.

“I knew it!” [y/n] hissed triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at him as if she were a Ministry prosecutor about to win a case. “You have been dreaming about me.”

Fred let out a dry, hollow laugh and scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to his chin as if physically bracing himself. “Bloody hell, Malfoy,” he muttered, a mix of disbelief and exasperation. “You’re really not going to let this go, are you?”

“No,” she snapped, her arms crossing defensively over her chest. “And don’t act like this is my fault. I didn’t invite myself into your dreams—you did. Or your subconscious did. Frankly, this emotional magic is a bloody difficult one to cast, since it even involved a Muggle.”

Fred tilted his head back against the counter, eyes briefly closing as if seeking divine patience. “It’s not like I can help what we dream about, can I? Merlin knows I wouldn’t choose you as my nightly torment.” He glanced at her then, a spark of familiar mischief lighting up his gaze despite his irritation. “Unless you’re saying I’m just that irresistible?”

She groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to haunt you—”

“Funny,” he interrupted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing a smashing job of it in real life right now.”

“Fred,” she breathed, and this time, it wasn’t a sharp rebuke. Her voice held a weariness, like the weight of everything between them had finally caught up to her. Fred stilled, his usual bravado faltering. There was something unnervingly raw about her tone. Something unguarded.

The room felt smaller suddenly, and the world outside quieter.

She sighed deeply, almost to herself, her gaze flicking briefly to the cup of tea she still held. “They were right, you know,” she said softly, as though admitting a secret she’d kept hidden for years. “It’s all about the ‘what ifs.’”

Fred didn’t reply, his brows knitting in faint confusion as he watched her. She continued, her gaze flickering from him to the cup of tea she still held, as though she couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “I tried to forget everything after the Hogwarts. I left it all behind—my name, my family, and, eventually, the magic. I thought… if I acted like none of it happened, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Perhaps you wouldn’t matter.”

She paused and forced herself to look up, her eyes locking onto his. “But it didn’t work. You’re still there, Fred Weasley, haunting me like some poorly written Victorian ghost.”

Fred blinked, momentarily taken aback by the weight of her words. It wasn’t often someone accused him of being anything besides a pain in the arse, let alone something important. He recovered quickly, though, because Fred Weasley was nothing if not annoyingly quick on his feet.

“Poorly written ghost?” he echoed, leaning forward with a mock-offended expression. “I’ll have you know I’m the stuff of literary genius. Dickens himself would weep at the sheer brilliance of me.”

“Fred—” she started, but he didn’t let her finish.

“Or Shakespeare,” he added with a smug grin. “Can’t you see it? ‘O Fred, Fred! Wherefore art thou, Fred?’ It’s tragic, really. Doomed romance and all that.”

Her lips twitched, but she bit down hard to smother any sign of a smile. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he shot back cheekily, though something softened behind his jest. He held her gaze, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of mockery there. “It’s the ‘what if,’ isn’t it? Our ‘what if.’ What are we supposed to do with it? Because, damn it, Malfoy, it’s us—haunting and being haunted.”

SAME DAY, ONE MINUTE LATER

Oh, her silence spoke volumes.

That Thursday had shaped up to be a day of surprises—none of them pleasant. First, Ron had barged into the flat at seven in the morning, a time when Fred was still blissfully asleep, just to offer him company (completely unnecessary) and tea (completely uninteresting). George had been off gallivanting around the world for two years now, putting, for the first time in their lives, a real, tangible distance between the twins.

The war had changed everything. During the final battle against the Dark Lord, Fred had been badly injured when a wall collapsed on him. By some miracle, the healing magic of those around him had been enough to stabilize his life force, but the full recovery came slowly, over a week of unconsciousness in the hospital wing.

It was a hard blow for all the Weasleys, but George had taken it the hardest. Fred and George weren’t just twins; they were one soul divided in two, and when Fred was nearly lost, George had felt like he was adrift on a sea without a shore. For a week, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t focus. It was as if half of him had vanished. The months that followed were a blur of worry and exhaustion, as George poured all his energy into caring for Fred. But slowly, he realized something: his obsessive behaviour wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t just fear—it was a fear of losing the very thing that made him who he was. Without Fred, George didn’t know who he was any more. And that was terrifying.

When the dust settled and the shop was up and running again, George had asked Fred for some time alone—to figure out who he was without being defined by “Fred and George.” Fred, ever the understanding twin, had agreed. He knew that, in part, he felt the same. Sure, he had been unconscious and had no idea of the emotional chaos around him, but he also knew that just as George was lost, so was he. He had never known who he was beyond being the other half of a pair. Who was Fred without George? It was a question that gnawed at him.

In the first year of George’s travels, everything had felt relatively surreal. The letters, messages, and photos kept coming, keeping the illusion of his brother being close, even though he wasn’t. It was easy to forget that George wasn’t his neighbour next door.

But recently, that comfort had started to fade. The letters had become less frequent, and when they did arrive, they were filled with long paragraphs about George discovering a passion for painting and his ever-expanding collection of international relationships. Meanwhile, Fred was still stuck in the same place—discovering nothing beyond the shop and his role in it.

It hadn’t been a shock when the nightmares had started, three months ago. They were relentless. [Y/N]—his siren, his tormentor—appeared in his dreams, calling to him, luring him in with the promise of something more, and then pushing him away with anger and disgust. Her rejection, especially in his dreams, was always the worst.

Ron had noticed Fred’s downward spiral. The dark circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. For the first month, Fred had avoided sleep altogether, afraid to face his siren again. And so, Ron had taken it upon himself to help, thinking it was all due to George’s absence. After all, none of the Weasleys knew the truth about [Y/N] Malfoy. They knew her only as the troublemaker Malfoy—just like her brother Draco—and someone Fred always scoffed at whenever her name was mentioned. George had suspected there was more to the story; however, Fred had never mentioned the kiss to anyone. That was a secret he’d carry to his grave.

But now, here she was—his siren, standing before him as beautiful as a teenager. Her dyed hair did not completely hide her roots, which were also evident in her expensive clothes. The coat she still wore, even inside the flat, was made of fluffy fur, like her nightgown had once been.

Her eyes were still sweet, her jawline as defined as it had ever been. Though her body was hidden beneath her clothing, Fred knew well enough that it hadn’t changed much. Her hand, delicately holding the teacup, was perfectly manicured. But the pink nails were new. Not the familiar green or black that used to symbolize her defiance, her Malfoy heritage. She had changed, sure—but not in the ways she claimed.

She was still a Malfoy witch, whether she liked it or not. Fred couldn’t quite understand her insistence on claiming to be someone different now. Sure, she was lighter, a little less guarded. She’d smiled at Ron a moment ago. Her forehead was more relaxed. But her tone was the same. Yet, her voice? The tone was the same. He could still hear the sharpness, the bitterness underneath it all.

The scent of something faintly spiced lingered in the air—not cinnamon, but something warmer, deeper. It reminded her of everything Fred Weasley was: audacious and unruly, yet oddly comforting. She glanced around the room, taking in the cluttered worktops and the faint hum of the kettle.

It was almost… domestic. And that was the problem.

Fred leaned against the counter opposite her, arms braced casually on either side, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. His eyes, sharp and searching, pinned her in place. “So,” he began, his voice low, measured. “Are we going to talk about it? Or are we just going to keep pretending we don’t have a difficulty with our what-if? You know where it starts. It’s your fault.”

[Y/N] let out a huff, turning slightly to avoid his gaze. “Not me, Weasley.”

“Right,” he drawled, the corner of his mouth curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because running off after a kiss isn’t a concern at all. It’s perfectly normal behaviour, Malfoy.”

She shot him a glare, her silver eyes flashing. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Fred straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Try me.”

The challenge in his voice was unmistakable, and for a moment, [Y/N] hesitated. But the weight of unspoken words pressed heavily on her chest, and the longer she stood there, the harder it became to ignore the gnawing ache inside her.

“Fine,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You want to know why I ran? Because I’ve spent my entire life believing that the only way to escape my family’s destiny was to find someone to save me from it. Someone who wasn’t like them. Someone who could… break the cycle.” She paused, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I thought kissing you would be the answer. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. I had to grow up and realize that no one—not even you—could be my saviour. I have to be my own.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, Fred said nothing. The tension between them crackled like static, filling the silence with unspoken truths.

“You think I don’t get it?” he said finally, his voice quieter now, edged with something raw. “Do you know what it’s like to hear people whisper about you? About your family? To have everyone think they know who you are because of where you come from? Malfoy, I grew up in a house that barely held together, with a family that everyone laughed at because we didn’t have two Sickles to rub together. You think I don’t know what it’s like to want to prove them all wrong?”

Her head snapped up, surprise flickering across her features. Fred stepped closer, his voice gaining strength.

“I heard about your engagement,” he said, his tone dipping. “The moment I found out, I thought it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard. Some pure-blood match, right? Another puppet for your father to string along? I wanted to… Merlin, I wanted to break every rule in the book, storm in and drag you away from it all. But then I realized…” His voice softened. “It wouldn’t have mattered. Because it had to be you, [Y/N]. It had to be your choice.”

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. She wanted to respond, to tell him that she understood, but her throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.

“When I heard that you ran off, disgracing your family’s name when we were on the brink of war, I just laughed so much, so loudly. I was somewhat proud. But I also hoped you would come to me. You never did. Were you alone all this time?” Fred dared ask and she nodded yes. His voice steady. “You don’t have to… any more.”

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away, forcing herself to stay composed. “You make it sound so simple,” she whispered. “But it’s not.”

Fred’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though his eyes remained serious. “It never is. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.”

The space between them felt charged, like a taut string pulled to its breaking point. Fred took another step forward, his presence warm and grounding. They were close now, so close that [Y/N] could see the faint freckles dusting his nose, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“This is a bad idea,” she said aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze dropped to his lips, betraying her resolve.

Fred’s breath hitched, and he leaned in, his voice low and teasing. “I like bad ideas. They’re the bestsellers at the shop.”

And then his lips were on hers, and the world seemed to still. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, as though they were both testing the waters. But it quickly deepened, the air between them crackling with intensity. Fred’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and [Y/N] responded in kind, her fingers threading through his hair as she pressed against him.

It was as if the universe had aligned for this one perfect moment. Their worlds—so different, so at odds—collided in a way that felt both impossible and inevitable. And for the first time in what felt like forever, [Y/N] allowed herself to believe in something apart from destiny.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet of the kitchen. Fred’s eyes searched hers, a flicker of mischief returning to his gaze.

“See?” he said, his voice soft but filled with humour. “Bad ideas can be brilliant.”

[Y/N] couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and unburdened. “You’re insufferable, Weasley.”

“And yet, you like me like that, Malfoy,” he shot back, grinning.

At that moment, standing in Fred’s cluttered kitchen with her heart racing and her walls crumbling, [Y/N] allowed herself to hope. Perhaps bad ideas weren’t so bad after all.

Fred stepped back first, his hand lingering at her waist, as though reluctant to let her go completely. [Y/N] tilted her head, her gaze flickering between his eyes and the faint smile that still played at his lips. It felt surreal, this moment—something plucked out of the pages of a story she hadn’t dared to believe could ever be hers.

“So,” Fred said, breaking the silence with his characteristic cheek. “Does this mean we’re friends again? Or do I need to officially apply for the position? I heard you have some now, with Clara and what’s her name.”

[Y/N] snorted softly, a sound that felt strangely freeing. “Friends?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if that’s what I’d call us.”

“Oh?” Fred’s grin widened. “And what would you call us, then?”

“Two idiots,” she replied, though there was no malice in her tone—only a lightness she hadn’t felt in years.

Fred let out a laugh, the sound warm and unguarded. “Well, if that’s the case,” he said, stepping closer again, “I say we’re bloody brilliant at it.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside that tiny kitchen ceased to exist. It was just them—two people who had spent years running from what-if’s, finally standing still long enough to see what might be.

TWO YEARS LATER (EPILOGUE)

The sun beamed down on the expansive garden of The Burrow, transformed for the day into something almost unrecognizable. Though it remained the cosy Weasley home at heart, today it sparkled with an air of opulence that could only come from [Y/N]'s insistence on keeping some of her luxurious customs intact. Every corner of the garden was adorned with charmed fairy lights and elaborate floral arrangements that shimmered faintly in the summer light, while silver table settings and flowing satin ribbons added an undeniable touch of grandeur. It was clear that with her fortune and Fred’s mischievous ingenuity, The Burrow had never looked so fancy.

[Y/N] adjusted her veil for the third time, glaring at Clara, her maid of honour, who was trying—and failing—to hide her grin.

“I don’t know how this house is still standing,” Clara said suddenly, gesturing toward The Burrow with a bewildered look. “I mean, look at it! The angles are all wrong, it’s leaning more than that tower in Italy, and I’m certain that top floor is breaking at least seven architectural laws.” She paused, then added, “Honestly, it’s like a miracle.”

“Structural spells,” [Y/N] replied smoothly, before quickly backtracking. “Er, I mean, I’m kidding! Fred’s dad’s very… handy. Built it himself. A bit of a genius with tools, really.”

Clara’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were on the cusp of figuring something out. But then she shook her head, letting out a laugh. “Well, whatever the reason, it’s… charming. Ridiculous, but charming.”

Then, as kind as always, she added, “It’s… unique. Just like you two. And stop fussing with your dress,” her Muggle practicality shining through. “You look perfect. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

“Nervous?” [Y/N] scoffed, though her hands betrayed her, fiddling with the intricate lace of her dress. “I’m a CEO. I don't get nervous.”

And it was true. After years trying to reach for the job, she finally got it. Just in another company this time. A shop, with a very funny name, that sold very funny products.

“Oh, is that right?” Fred’s voice cut through the air as he appeared around the corner, already in his dress robes but as insufferably casual as ever. He grinned at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Because from here, it looks like you’re about to bolt.”

“Fred,” Clara said with mock exasperation, “you’re not supposed to see her before the ceremony!”

“It’s bad luck,” [Y/N] added, her tone clipped but her lips twitching in amusement.

Fred waved a dismissive hand. “Bad luck, good luck… I think we’ve already broken enough rules to make our own luck.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, though her eyes softened as she looked at him.

Before Fred could retort, a commotion erupted from the far end of the garden. Heads turned as a figure emerged from the apparition point, his dishevelled red hair unmistakable even from a distance.

“George!” Fred exclaimed, his grin widening. He turned to [Y/N], his eyes alight with excitement. “Told you he’d make it.”

George Weasley strode toward them, his expression equal parts sheepish and triumphant. On his arm was a stunning woman with an air of effortless confidence, her sleek black dress a sharp contrast to the cheerful chaos around her.

“Sorry, I’m late,” George said as he approached, his voice carrying that familiar Weasley humour. “Had to pick up a plus-one.”

“Fashionably late as always,” Fred quipped, clapping his twin on the back. “I was starting to think you’d run off to Peru again.”

“Not this time,” George replied with a grin, before turning to [Y/N]. His gaze lingered, a flicker of recognition softening his expression. “Couldn’t miss this. Took you too long enough to make it official.”

[Y/N] tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. “I see you haven’t lost your charm, George.”

“Nor my memory,” he quipped. “Always knew I’d see you again, Malfoy.”

“Lovely to finally see you again, George. Now, if you don’t mind…” [y/n] gestured toward the arch, her impatience evident. “I’d like to get married sometime this century.”

George raised his hands in mock surrender. “Say no more.” He turned to Fred, giving him a sly wink. “Good luck, mate. You’re going to need it.”

Fred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. He turned back to [Y/N], his expression softening as he offered her his arm. “Shall we, Siren?” he teased, the nickname slipping out as naturally as ever.

“Let’s,” she said, her heart racing as she took his arm.

The ceremony was short but sweet, filled with laughter and a few tears. Clara sniffled loudly as she handed [Y/N] her bouquet, earning a teasing nudge from Fred. When the officiant finally asked if they took each other as husband and wife, their answers rang out in unison, clear and certain.

“I do.”

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Fred leaned in, his voice low enough for only [Y/N] to hear. “Told you bad ideas are brilliant.”

She laughed, her heart lighter than it had ever been. For the first time, she felt free—free of her past, her name, her burdens. As they walked back down the aisle together, hand in hand, she couldn’t help but smile.

After years of trying, she had finally let go of the Malfoy name for a new one.

Weasley.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley x malfoy!reader #fred and george #fred weasley #harry potter #fred weasley fic #george weasley

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